Escape From New York
by Icy Mike Molson and Nevermore
Summary: A small group of mercenaries is sent to New York to extract a Camarilla spy that's undercover in the Sabbat, all while an unknown threat is exterminating kindred in Coney Island.
1. Reassigned

Vampire: The Masquerade is owned by White Wolf Publishing. Our use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyright. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is unintended.

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**Authors' Note:** This story is intended to be one part in a continuing series, and as such will not be as satisfying if read as a stand-alone story. We're attempting to do what we can to make it readable as a stand-alone, but there's a lot that came before that simply cannot be suitably condensed as referenced back-story. Further complicating the matter is the fact that this story builds on the events of two stories by Icy Mike Molson, neither of which has been posted and only one of which has even been written. Events of a third story, also unwritten, are peripherally important and we're reasonably certain we can work around them.

(Note from the Chief Molsonite: The aforementioned written, but not posted, story is on the way. As soon as I figure a title for it and force myself back into revisions. I hate line by line editing.)

The shortest (and we use that word loosely) way to catch up is to read Icy Mike Molson's _Sleight of Hands_ and Nevermore's _On the Road to Recovery_. Those stories have many of the same characters dealing with the most relevant continuing story arcs that develop into the action herein. However, like it says above, we'll do our best to make this enjoyable as a stand-alone.

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**Escape From New York  
****by  
****Icy Mike Molson and Nevermore**

**I – Reassigned**

"He'll be with you shortly." Wong's tone is passive and even, his expression as inscrutable as ever. Having no hint as to why he's been summoned -- or what to expect when his sire is finally ready to see him -- Johnny Yashida allows himself to ponder Wong's term of service. The ghoul has been Siras Telemon's retainer for well over fifty years, almost the entire time that Siras has been kindred. Through the years, Wong has proven himself loyal, capable, and admirably discreet. Johnny has never had anything but good things to say about Wong, and so even now he's finding it difficult to direct his anxiety and ire at the ghoul. And that brings him back to his biggest question.

_Why the hell am I here?_ he wonders, not for the first time. Three days earlier, while negotiating a service contract with the prince of Little Rock, he'd received a call instructing him to take his team out of the field, put them on standby, and return to headquarters immediately. Johnny thinks it bad enough that the Telemon, a young clan of kindred mercenaries, likely offended the prince of Little Rock when they awkwardly withdraw from negotiations with barely an explanation, but what made it inestimably worse was the fact that Johnny hadn't received any more information than anyone else.

Johnny Yashida is young by the standards of the kindred -- commonly referred to as vampires by the mortals -- but an unlikely set of circumstances has allowed him to acquire far more influence than most kindred of any age could ever dream. His sire, Siras Telemon, originally brought him into the world of the kindred in 1973. At the time, Siras had been on the run, driven by paranoia as he skulked in shadows, fearing reprisals from his own grandsire for crimes he rarely discussed and never fully explained. All Johnny knew in the beginning was that he had to keep a low profile and be prepared to dash from one side of North America to the other on a moment's notice. This vagabond existence had only ended when Siras and Johnny happened upon a Delta Forces soldier who'd just left the service. Siras embraced Marcus Dietrich immediately, and everything had changed.

Siras had been a soldier in World War II, and Marcus was a special forces operator who'd seen action all over the world, constantly training or taking part in covert operations. Marcus, like Siras and unlike Johnny, was more than able to mix it up in a fight, and his presence convinced Siras that maybe, for the first time in decades, it was safe to stop and settle down, if only for a short while. At that point the trio was in State College, Pennsylvania, a college town that was home to over fifty-thousand people during the school year and which was ostensibly Camarilla-held, almost equidistant between the Sabbat strongholds of Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. Siras earned favors when he and Marcus put down Sabbat interlopers, and he cashed in all of those favors when he made a play for the town. It took less than two years for Siras to become prince, and he held his position by recruiting from the local ROTC and hiring out his young neonates as mercenaries, providing shock troops in the Camarilla's war against the Sabbat.

Early success led to notoriety, and Johnny, who'd been left on the outside looking in during the fighting, finally found himself useful. Once again he traveled across the country, but now as the ambassador of the mercenary clan, Telemon, rather than as a young kindred running for his life.

Johnny has recently heard that the phrase, "The prince just called Yashida," has come to mean that a Camarilla prince has inquired about hiring Telemon mercenaries. Despite his current anxiety, that thought brings a smile to Johnny's face. He knows Siras was initially uncomfortable about using his scandalously casual, physically unimposing childe as his representative to the princes of North America, but Siras's early faith has been rewarded.

_I did everything he could have possibly wanted,_ Johnny reminds himself, wondering why he's so nervous. _Sure, I didn't expect to be called in, but that doesn't mean I'm in trouble._ He has almost a whole hour to make a mental list of all the things he's done to help his clan, and by the time Wong finally emerges from Siras's office to usher him in, he figures he's worthy of a medal, if not a movie-of-the-week.

"Johnny," Siras says, his face every bit as unreadable as Wong's. "Have a seat." Johnny's sire is seated in his customary leather armchair, leaning back comfortably, leveling his imposing stare on his childe. His hands are folded in front of him, and something about Siras seems almost pensive, as if he's still contemplating how he would like to handle this meeting. Johnny isn't fooled by appearances, though. He knows his sire well enough to realize that all of this is part of a well rehearsed presentation. Siras never has a meeting without knowing in advance how it will play out. He hates surprises, and so Johnny is left to wonder why his sire thinks it important to appear as if he may be second-guessing himself at the last moment.

"Sir," Johnny replies. He doesn't bother with a salute -- he doubts he'd get it right, anyway -- and nods toward Marcus Dietrich as he warily sits down in one of the large leather armchairs in front of Siras's English oak desk. Marcus's presence is unexpected, and Johnny again starts wondering what this all about. His best guess is that the clan suffered some sort of terrible reversal in one of its sieges. _Probably Boston,_ he decides. _We have more invested there than anywhere else. I'll bet Siras needs me to go around and try to draw down some of our troops from some of our other contracts, maybe try to get princes to agree to a brief redeployment. This is gonna cost us. We'll be in debt to our eyeballs, countless favors and obligations that'll hang over our heads for decades. Maybe centuries._

Several more moments pass in silence before Siras finally sighs heavily and locks his stare onto Johnny. "You're being relieved of your duties, effective immediately," he says.

"Huh?" Johnny asks, stunned.

"You're relieved," Siras repeats, speaking the words slowly, as if he's addressing a child. If Johnny's sire has any idea of the effect his words, he isn't showing it. "When you leave here, I want you to put together a comprehensive report on your activities," Siras continues. Now he's looking away absently, as casually as if he's discussing the most recent ills of his favorite football team, the Chicago Bears. "Danny McLaughlin is taking over your duties."

"Sir?" Johnny asks.

"And I'm breaking up your team," Siras adds. "Mel is going back to Sam Carson in Boston; he can do with her as he pleases. Mason is being reassigned to Brett's team; he'll report in at Miami. Uiko will wait out in Little Rock for McLaughlin to arrive; she'll stay with our diplomatic team, continuing her own training as she brings McLaughlin up to speed."

"Why?" Johnny finally manages. He turns to face Marcus, hoping that his blood-brother will at least look at him. But Marcus's eyes are turned toward the floor. He, at least, understands what this is doing to Johnny, though he isn't doing anything to stop Siras's unexpected actions.

"I don't need to explain why," Siras answers with a shrug, "though if I wanted to, I could ask you about your misadventures in Tennessee and how you made an enemy of a bishop who ended up bringing his vendetta to my doorstep."

"That was over two years ago," Johnny points out.

"You spend your time dealing with princes and primogen," Siras points out coldly. "You of all people should understand that it can be countless years before you suffer the consequences of your actions. By kindred standards, this is rather immediate."

"Fuck you," Johnny spits, rising from his chair. He glares down at his sire, wondering if he can draw his pistol and get off several well-aimed shots before Marcus gets out of his chair and tears him to pieces.

"Sit down," Siras commands. "Now."

"Fuck. You," Johnny repeats. He turns and walks out, then hops on his Kawasaki and starts speeding toward downtown State College. He's there in minutes and finds the streets crammed with the late-night bar crowd. He parks and starts walking toward Zeno's, a small pub where his last surviving ghoul waits tables. He's rounding the corner, pushing past an annoying throng of fraternity boys yelling to some friends across the street, when he's hit with a blinding blast of light and heat.

The world is spinning before Johnny Yashida's eyes, and he's struggling to climb to his feet. He's dimly aware that there's been an explosion, that he was close enough that he's lucky to be in one piece. He allows himself a moment to take stock of the situation, realizing that he's flat on his back, lying on grass. _I must have been blown clear across the street,_ he decides. He thinks he's gotten control of his legs again when something heavy lands on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

"Stay down," a voice mutters.

"Let me up," Johnny protests. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows now, struggling to gain some degree of leverage, but even with the confusion in his head, he knows he's failing.

"Stay down," the voice repeats. "The boss went to a lot of trouble to arrange this. Don't go spoiling it by letting people see you walk away."

"What?" Johnny asks. "What the hell do you mean? Who the fuck are you?"

"My name's Bill Hudson," the man tells him. "I'm the man who just killed you, Sir."

------------------------------

The building, an old, crumbling warehouse on the forgotten industrial waterfront of Detroit, is silent and dark but for a few scattered pools of sodium illumination leaking in through grimy, broken windows. Rotting pallettes and musty, derelict boxes create winding alleys and foreboding cul-de-sacs along the walls, while the center of the filthy, paper strewn floor is left wide open. Occasionally the sound of a squeaking rat or a distant car breaks the silence, but inside the warehouse the air hangs heavy and still.

It's not exactly a new situation to K.T. Corben, but the Gangrel mercenary still doesn't like it. In the past, such warehouses have been the homes of anarchs or Brujah rebels, a challenge at best but nothing that K.T. didn't think he could handle. He's stalked through dozens of warehouses, more often the hunter than the hunted, and he's collected on a number of contracts by bringing down those anarchs and rebels.

Tonight, just like every other night of the past month, he's not sure if he's the hunter or the hunted. There is only one other vampire in the warehouse with him, but that vampire is old, fast, and thoroughly lethal in a way that no vampire K.T.'s age can hope to be. The vampire he's trying to find could practically be next to him, or maybe three floors up and watching him through the holes in the floors on the upper levels. All K.T. can do is keep himself silent and in the darkness, hopefully out of sight of the old Assamite long enough to wear down his patience.

But then again, if Hassan really is as old as he hints, K.T. doubts he'll have enough patience to outlast someone who measures his age in centuries rather than years or decades.

It is wrong to say he hears something off to his right, beyond the wide open space in the center of the warehouse. It's more like he feels it. In a room that has not seen life in decades, movement, however silent, seems to interrupt the tomblike peace of the place, sending waves out across the stillness. Quickly K.T. considers his options. He'll have little, if any time to trace Hassan from his gut feeling, but crossing the open space is something he will not do. If he can feel Hassan, then the Assamite likely will know if he tries any kind of move, and throwing himself out into the open is the surest way to a swift end. Quickly the Gangrel ducks back through the boxes, skirting ghostlike across the edge of that yawning void in the room's center. He makes no sound as he moves, and calls upon his discipline of Obfuscate to enhance his natural stealth. He doesn't know if the Assamite will be able to see through his discipline's limited power, but every edge he can take in this fight is an edge he'll desperately need.

There is sudden movement in front of him. Emerging from the darkness is a silent, lethal figure, shrouded in dark robes and turban and wielding a long, gleaming scimitar. The scimitar moves lightning quick, sweeping in at his neck, but K.T. somehow manages to get beneath the curved blade and slide quickly out of reach of the dangerous weapon. The Arab moves with him, spinning low and trying to cut off the Gangrel's legs. K.T. manages to tumble over the blade, somersaulting to his feet even as blood begins to ooze to the surface of his right palm. The Gangrel continues to backpedal away from his attacker, forcing himself to the limits of his celerity-enhanced agility, but even then Hassan's blade strikes a long, shallow wound across the Gangrel's stomach through his heavy duster. The mercenary stumbles but maintanis his balance, throwing his left forearm up just as the Assamite's blade sweeps in at his neck. A loud, metallic clang rings out through the darkness as Hassan's blade finds the improvised shield that K.T. has made up just for times like this; at the same instant the Gangrel lunges forward and slaps Hassan across the cheek, leaving a bloody handprint for only a brief instant before it absorbs into his foe's skin. K.T. follows the momentum of his strike and dives forward, finally growing his hands into claws, but even as he turns back to his enemy Hassan is on him, the scimitar missing but a long, slim dagger piercing deep into K.T.'s shoulder. There is a searing pain that no ordinary weapon can cause, but the Gangrel is already far too familiar with the agonizing pain of an Assamite's blood poison. Growling in pain but refusing to give in to the Assamite, K.T. pulls away, the dagger still embedded in his arm.

"Enough!" Hassan snaps suddenly. K.T. is ready to pounce, but stops at the words. Slowly the Assamite examines the mercenary, regarding the dagger in his shoulder. "Take it out," he orders sternly. K.T. does as he's told, pulling out the weapon with a wince of pain but refusing to show any further discomfort to his mentor. For a long moment the two simply watch each other through the darkness, until Hassan roughly takes hold of K.T.'s left hand and pushes the torn sleeve of the duster back. Underneath the coat, six slim steel rods are tied over the top half of the Gangrel's forearm from his wrist to his elbow. As the Assamite looks from the crude shield to the mercenary, the Gangrel allows himself a derisive smirk.

"Hope I didn't hurt your toy," K.T. says. Hassan snorts out a cold chuckle.

"Just because I use a blade, does not mean all your quarries will," Hassan states sternly.

"I thought I should know my enemy before I attack," K.T. retorts. The Assamite pauses for a long moment, his face emotionless, before rubbing his cheek where K.T. had slapped him.

"Your ability with Quietus, however laughable it may be, is increasing," the Assamite states. "Perhaps there is hope that you will overcome the innate weaknesses of your mongrel blood." He pauses, looking around him for a moment. "Do you know why I chose to fight you here?"

"Because it's dark and there's a lot of hiding spaces," K.T. replies sarcastically. K.T. barely sees Hassan's hand move, but the resounding slap across his face nearly snaps his head back.

"Because this place is dead," the Assamite corrects him sharply. "In a place where nothing moves and all is dead, the slightest disturbance creates an echo. You felt it just before I attacked you. Your eyes went directly to where I was."  
"Gut instinct," K.T. counters, unwilling to agree with his mentor. Hassan knows the act for what it is already, and allows himself a scornful laugh.

"Call it what you will," Hassan says, "but remember it. An elder's haven will feel much like this place, cold and dead. And in such places, echoes carry far indeed. Your pitiful senses may be able to notice rank neonates hiding behind light poles, but even your miserable companion's pathetic comprehension of auspex can never hope to penetrate the powerful webs of Obfuscate that many elders create. You must feel the echoes or you will die before you ever know your quarry is near."

"I'll keep that in mind, then," K.T. grumbles. At this moment, the only elders the Gangrel has any inclination of hunting are the ones that dragged him into this personal hell of training missions and forced contracts. Hassan glares at the mercenary for a moment, but then nods to the distant doors behind him.

"Then go," Hassan states. "Feed, and heal yourself. We are done for the night."

"Then I'm done, period," K.T. says. "That's it. One month in Detroit finished this session. Peakes is dead and I'm in the clear."

"And where will you be going?" Hassan inquires.

"Home," K.T. answers, shaking his sleeve back down over his arm as he turns away from the Assamite. "When I wasn't out hunting down that dumbass Ravnos of yours, you've been stabbing me with blood-poisoned weapons for a month. I'm tired and I'm going home."

"You aren't done," Hassan states. K.T. whirls back on the Arab, his blue eyes locking onto the far older vampire behind him with a cold glare.

"I'm done," the Gangrel declares. "I've spent the last three months letting you beat the ever loving shit out of me, tracking down your problems for you, and answering your every beck and call. Now I've been promised time for myself, and I'm taking it."

"We have a new assignment for you," Hassan states, ignoring the mercenary's furious glare. "Something has come up in an area you may still be familiar with."

"It'd better be Kansas," K.T. mutters. Hassan allows himself a derisive chuckle.

"It is Brooklyn," the Assamite states. K.T.'s eyes widen in shock. "Coney Island, to be exact. You are to investigate rumors of a new, independent group of vampires there. Apparently, the local Sabbat has taken casualties against an undetermined foe."

"So send your lackeys in there and take them out," K.T. says. "You don't need me for this."

"You _are_ the lackey we're sending in," Hassan states sternly. "A strike team composed of the Sabbat Hand is inappropriate if this new presence is to be evaluated for possible use. Such a group would also destroy the last shreds of secrecy in the area, something that cannot be allowed. I would think you, of all people, would understand the importance of maintaining what little is left of your so called Masquerade in New York City."

"It's not my problem," K.T. states angrily. Hassan nods down to the gleaming blade of his scimitar, still held at the ready.

"Yes, it is," the Assamite corrects.

_To be continued………………………………_


	2. Second Thoughts

White Wolf Publishing owns the "World of Darkness" and "Vampire: The Masquerade." My use is in no way meant to challenge their copyrights. This piece is not intended for any profit on the part of the writer, nor is it meant to detract from the commercial viability of the aforementioned or any other copyrights. Any similarity to any events or persons, either real or fictional, is coincidental and unintended.

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**II – Second Thoughts**

"So, your name's Bill Hudson," Johnny finally says. He and Hudson have been driving through the darkness of Central Pennsylvania for over half an hour, and Johnny's ears still haven't stopped ringing from the explosion in State College. It occurs to him that maybe he shouldn't be so certain that the man he spoke to on his cell phone was really Marcus Dietrich, but the passwords and phrases had all been correct, so he'd climbed into Hudson's Toyota Camry and sat passively, waiting for some type of explanation.

Hudson keeps driving, seemingly ignoring Johnny's question, leaving the Telemon to wonder if any answers will be forthcoming in the foreseeable future. Yashida turns to stare at the driver, taking in his appearance, trying to decide if there's anything about the man that might offer any explanations. _White male, brown hair with scattered streaks of gray, brown eyes. I'd guess he's somewhere around six feet,_ Johnny decides, though it's hard to be certain with Hudson sitting down. _No distinguishing scars, marks, or tattoos. Khakis, dark blue sweater, just the kind of clothes you'd expect to see on a guy who looks like he's in his late forties. Rather unimpressive, really._

"I want answers," Johnny tells him. Hudson continues to ignore his passenger, so Johnny decides to rephrase the question. "I want answers, _now_," he says evenly. He wishes he still had a weapon, but one of the first things he realized was that he either lost his 9mm after getting blown away from the explosion, or Bill Hudson disarmed him before he'd completely come to his senses. Either way, Johnny doesn't much care; he's far from defenseless.

"I'm not authorized to give you any answers yet," Hudson finally says.

"Orders from who?" Johnny asks. He's never been a fan of secrets. Or, more accurately, he's never been a fan of people keeping secrets from him.

"I'm not at liberty to tell you that," Hudson replies, "but in order to save time, I can tell you that my orders come from one of the two people who definitively outrank you."

"So you're kindred?"

"Uh-huh." Hudson's tone makes it clear that he isn't willing to engage in any more small talk.

"I see," Johnny says, deciding he doesn't like Hudson's attitude. _Nope, I don't like it much at all._

Yashida looks ahead on the road, sitting back and waiting until the vehicle is finally on a straightaway. Once it is, he focuses his blood, drawing inky black tendrils of shadow from the darkest recesses of the vehicle -- under the seat, below the dashboard -- and within moments Bill Hudson is pinned to his seat, his arms secure against his sides, his feet pulled back beneath him, away from the gas and brake.

"What the hell are you..." Hudson's voice is cut off as another tentacle of shadow slithers up and around his mouth.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Johnny says caustically, casually reaching over with his left hand and guiding the Camry over onto the shoulder as the car rolls to a stop. He shifts the car into park, switches on the hazard lights, takes the keys from the ignition, and strolls back to the trunk. A quick search reveals his holster, his two Glock 18's, his ninja-to, and two suitcases. He grabs his weapons, walks around to the passenger door, and tosses them inside the vehicle, confident that Bill Hudson is immobilized well enough to guarantee he won't be a threat anytime soon.

_There's gotta be something useful in here,_ he tells himself. He looks in the back seat, finding it empty but noting that there's trunk access. He opens the back door, lowers the seats, and walks around to the driver's door. He opens that, ignoring the truck that flies by on the highway, doing over eighty, and finds the perfect item lying on the floor next to the driver's seat. _A snow brush,_ he thinks happily. The brush is about a meter long, made of wood, with a brush on one end and an ice scraper on the other. Johnny picks it up, closes the door, and walks around to the passenger side. He snaps off the ice scraper as he sits down, and drives the sharp, broken stick into Hudson's chest, immediately sending him into torpor.

Once Hudson is disabled, Johnny allows the tentacles to fade, and he wrestles the vampire's unconscious body into the back seat and then into the trunk, never taking the body out of the vehicle and allowing passing motorists to see something they shouldn't. _Almost impossible to maintain the Masquerade nowadays. Goddamn cell phones that shoot pictures and video, every frickin' person has a damn digital camera, and it can all be emailed to the nearest news outlet without the witness even stopping. It's worse than having Big Brother watching; we're actually all spying on each other, everyone uploading anything interesting to YouTube._ He can easily imagine a video of him impaling Hudson through the chest and stuffing him in the trunk, labeled as "Crazy Asian Dude Van Helsing's Some Guy'," uploaded by a socially inept, pre-pubescent jackass using the screen name i69dteh3jessicas or some shit like that. After a few irritated moments, he does his best to shake off the concerns posed by the digital age and returns to the task at hand.

As soon as Hudson's body is securely packed into the trunk, Johnny settles into the driver's seat, moving it forward as he pulls back out onto the highway and turns on the radio, hoping he can find something tolerable to listen to. The airwaves are full of country and static, and Johnny laments that the car doesn't have a jack for his iPod. He drives east for another hour before he finally starts formulating plans in his head.

_Siras is nothing if not organized,_ Johnny decides, thinking the situation through from the beginning. _By now Mason and Mel are on planes to their new assignments, and Uiko has probably already had her first meeting with Danny._ Then a new problem occurs to the Telemon. _And maybe Billy Boy was supposed to have checked in by now. Siras may totally know what I'm up to, that I've gone AWOL. Shit._

He quickly makes a U-turn at the next emergency vehicle crossover he finds, deciding, if nothing else, that if Siras thinks he's headed east, then it's probably smartest to go west.

-----------------------------------

"Let me know if you ever need a reference," Sam Richards says, leaning back in his leather chair, a thin smile spreading his lips as he appraises the young woman in front of him. Extremely young by kindred standards, himself, he can easily pick out the telltale signs of another neophyte. He'd been reluctant to hire her, but her admittedly unsubstantiated claim that she'd been trained by K.T. Corben was an undeniable selling point. Sam Richards met the Gangrel mercenary once, years earlier in San Francisco, and he'd been impressed. _And it's clear that with at least one kindred mercenary, the acorn didn't fall far from the tree._

"Thanks," Erica Blackwell replies. She makes sure she maintains eye contact, that she keeps her guard up in case her employer is planning to double-cross her at the last minute. K.T. always warned her that this moment -- when she and her employer settle the account -- was often the most dangerous part of being a mercenary. _At least nothing bad happened while I was on the job,_ Erica reminds herself. She knows that employers are generally far more willing to pay their outstanding balance when they're satisfied with the end result.

"The deal was three-thousand up front, and another three at the end," Sam Richards says smoothly. He opens a drawer in front of him, and Erica's hand slowly starts to inch toward the Glock at her waist, just in case. "I assume that Carol provided you with your per diem during the contract."

"She did," Erica confirms with a nod. She doesn't like Carol -- Sam's assistant is an absolute snob -- but she was never late providing Erica's small daily allowance, and that's not a virtue to overlook. She remembers K.T.'s advice that oftentimes, an employer's efficiency will far outweigh any character deficiencies. And so it was with Carol; Erica would prefer never having to speak with her again, but that doesn't mean she wouldn't accept another contract offer from Sam or his assistant.

"Here you go," Sam says, tossing a stack of bound hundred-dollar bills on the desktop. "How do I get in touch with you if I'd like to hire you again?"

"Personal Ad in the Chicago Sun-Tribune," Erica says. She takes a business card out of her pocket and hands it to Richards. "Just follow the directions on the back. I'll probably keep that method for at least another five years before switching it up."

"And if I need to find you more than five years from now?" Richards presses pleasantly.

"Then you'll just have to ask around or place a general ad in the trades," Erica says, shrugging her shoulders. She remembers asking K.T. a similar question not long after she got started, wondering why he would completely change his contact information from time to time, cutting off contact with former employers who might offer plum contracts. After all, potential employers had lifespans that could be measured in centuries; it seemed foolish to leave them behind after only four or five years. Her companion's response -- "Just in case" -- was vintage K.T. Erica never thought that was a great explanation, but she was willing to trust K.T.'s half-century of experience as a merc.

"So our business is complete?" Richards asks.

"It is," Erica confirms, placing the stack of bills in her jacket pocket.

"Then I was wondering if you'd be interested in a more long-term arrangement," Sam says. He's smiling broadly now, doing his best to appear friendly and ingratiating. Erica can't see a single sign of deception, and she's _really _looking.

"I don't think so," she says, standing up. "You offered a two-week contract, and that's what we did. Let's not ruin things by getting too familiar; after all, they say familiarity breeds contempt."

"And you think you'd end up feeling contempt for me?"

"No, it's far more likely you'll end up tired of me," Erica counters. "I hear it actually _is _possible to get too much of a good thing."

"So I hear," Richards agrees, chuckling slightly. "I could use someone like you, though. You're unusually competent for someone so young."

"Thanks," Erica says. She smiles, despite the fact that she understands Richards's true meaning -- she provides unusually high-quality services for someone too young to charge appropriate fees. She does her best to take the words as a compliment. "But I make it a habit not to overstay my welcome. We both got what we bargained for; let's leave it that way."

"Young, beautiful, and wise beyond her years," Richards says, nodding appreciatively, "but I can't say I'm not disappointed. If you ever decide to settle down, please give me a call, Ms. Blackwell. I think you and I could go far together."

-----------------------------------

"Johnny? Where the hell are you?" Michelle asks. She's standing in the packed parking lot outside the movie theater, looking for a new car, trying to decide whose sin is greater -- Hollywood's for making a vampire movie like_Ultraviolet_, or hers for having paid hard-stolen money to see it -- and Johnny's call is a welcome distraction from her unsolvable dilemma. "Are you done in Little Rock already? Are you coming down here now? Because let me tell ya, Tampa isn't really the most exciting place in the world."

"I'm not in Little Rock," Johnny tells her. "I was recalled to State College to meet with Siras."

"Why?" Michelle asks. She remembers that she's trying to seem far less hostile every time Johnny mentions his sire -- a feat she's taken to thinking of as nothing short of Herculean, even though she's not entirely sure of the proper usage of the word -- so she does her best to keep the distaste from her voice. "What does good old Siras need?"

"I think it might be a good idea for you to leave Tampa," Johnny suggests, avoiding her question.

"Why's that?" Michelle asks. Devoting so much attention to her own tone, she's noticed something wrong in Johnny's. _Something went wrong,_ she knows. _I bet Siras gave him another crap assignment, probably right in the middle of some siege. I wonder what Boston's like this time of year... _"Plans for Little Rock fall through?"

"I wouldn't know," Johnny answers.

It's clear to Michelle that Johnny's pissed, and though she knows it probably isn't a good idea to push him on this, suppressing her curiosity has never been one of the Gangrel's strong points. "So what's that mean?" she asks.

"I've been relieved of my duties," Johnny explains.

"Huh?"

"I'm not the Telemon ambassador anymore," Johnny tells her.

"You got fired?" Michelle asked.

"I didn't get fired," Johnny objects.

"But that's great," Michelle says, suddenly happier than she's been in years. "Catch a flight out to L.A. -- I'll meet you there. We can hop on a cruise to Hawaii or something."

"I'm a little busy right now." Johnny's taken on that really condescending tone that Michelle hates, the one that makes him sound like he's trying to explain something to a six-year old. In all their years together, it's the one really annoying habit she's neither gotten used to nor gotten him out of. And it isn't made any better by the fact that it's usually the same way Siras talks to Johnny.

"How are you busy?" she asks. "You just said you've been relieved. So let's take a vacation."

"I was transferred," Johnny grumbles. "I have other duties now."

"What do you mean you were transferred?" Michelle asks incredulously. "Who transferred you?"

"Siras." Once again, he sounds like he's talking to a child.

"How can he just transfer you?" Michelle replies. "What, like you're in the army or something?"

"Pretty much," Johnny admits. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Not really. I was too busy hitting on all those soldier types you keep bringing around."

"Funny," Johnny mutters.

"Well, you know how women are about a man in uniform," Michelle says. She knows Johnny is way beyond pissed, and she suspects that there's even more that he isn't telling her yet, so that means it's time for her to make inappropriate jokes to try to lighten the mood. It's really the only way she knows to deal with the situation.

"This isn't a good time," Johnny tells her.

"Okay." _He's in trouble,_ Michelle realizes. _Big trouble._ "Where are you? You're not in State College anymore, are you?"

"No," Johnny admits. "I'm heading west on I-80 right now."

"Why west? Where ya going?"

"Don't know where I'm going yet," Johnny says. "I'm sorta making this up as I go, 'chelle. Siras sent me out east, so once I took care of the driver, I decided it might be best to turn around and go west. Besides, if I drive long enough, I'm going to start approaching Branas's territory. Siras won't follow, and he won't think to look for me there."

"Because he expects you to be smarter than to go anywhere near Chicago," Michelle says. She knows things are far worse than she suspected if Johnny is actually considering laying low in the territory of a centuries-old vampire who'd love nothing more than to stake him and leave him for the morning sun. "What the hell happened?"

"From what I can piece together, Siras thought it was a good idea to fake my death," Johnny explains. "That was after he stripped me of my command and scattered my team across the country."

"Uiko and Mel are gone?" Michelle asks. She's beyond caring that there's an unmistakable tone of joy in her voice.

"And Mason, too," Johnny adds.

"So now what?" Michelle asks, ignoring any mention of Mason. She knows Johnny wouldn't expect her to be too broken up about him being gone, so she doesn't say anything that might betray her disappointment about never getting any more secret hand-to-hand or firearms training from the former Secret Service agent.

"I told you, I'm making this up as I go," Johnny replies impatiently. "Siras obviously had something planned for me, something that he figured would be easier if word got out that I'm dead. But he failed to tell me before sending me on my way, and the guy I'm teamed with isn't very forthcoming."

"Aren't you in the car?" Michelle asks.

"Yeah, so?"

"Can't he hear you?" Michelle asks. _It's not like Johnny to speak freely like this in front of someone he doesn't know._

"No, he can't hear me," Johnny says casually. "I staked him with an ice scraper and stuffed him in the trunk."

"You did _what_? Johnny, Siras is gonna skin you alive."

"Probably," Johnny agrees. "But this guy he sent with me is a real asshole. Wouldn't answer any of my questions."

"So wouldn't his silence make this one of those need-to-know deals?" Michelle asks. She thinks it's funny to bring that up, because Johnny has kept information from her countless times by telling her that it was need-to-know only, and she didn't need to know. It's satisfying to know he's pissed off about being in the same position for once.

"Are you _trying_ to irritate me?" Johnny asks. But there's a slightly amused tone in his voice, a hint of the Johnny Michelle knows and loves, so she's sure she's finally getting him to calm the hell down.

"Not saying anything you don't already know." Michelle smiles, imagining that Johnny is doing the same on his end of the line. "So seriously, what can I do?"

"I need some time to think," Johnny answers. "I'm gonna try to make it as far as Ohio, and then I'll hole up in a hotel or something until tomorrow night. Then I'll un-stake this clown and see what the boss wants."

"But you have no idea what'll come after that."

"Not so much," Johnny admits. "The thing is, he went to a lot of trouble to make it look like I died. He called me into town, dissolved my team in a face-to-face meeting, and then set off a car bomb right next to me. He probably thinks anyone watching us will assume that he killed me as a message to everyone else in the clan, a demonstration of what happens when we misbehave."

"Or maybe they'll assume that someone just tried to kill the Telemon emissary," Michelle offers. She knows Johnny's a target, that he's not only the most visible member of the Telemon clan, but he's also one of the most vulnerable. _It's not that hard to believe that some of the Telemons' enemies might decide that some of the Telemons' other enemies just assassinated the Telemon emissary._ And then it dawned on her what Siras might have been doing. "Siras knows that people are going to spend weeks trying to figure out what happened, doesn't he?"

"I assume so," Johnny says. "Anyone watching the clan or planning a move against us is gonna have to take a step back and figure out what just happened. And while they're all looking at State College, assuming I'm dead..."

"You'll be somewhere else, doing whatever it is Siras has in mind."

"Yeah. Whatever it is."

"I'll let you get going," Michelle says. "I'm gonna start driving north. I'll probably stop in Tallahassee, and then I'll see if I can make Charlotte or maybe even Baltimore tomorrow night."

"Be careful," Johnny says. And the way he says it, Michelle knows he isn't planning on telling her where his orders are taking him.

"You, too," she says, ending the call and sticking her cell in her pocket. _Heading east from State College, on a mission that was presumably so Top Secret that Siras decided he needed to fake Johnny's death. Gee, let me guess where Johnny gets to do Siras's dirty work this time..._

_To be continued………………………………………_


End file.
